Horseman, Pass By
by oconnellaboo
Summary: Sequel to, "No, Nay Never, No More." Rated T for language. Etta Bishop casts a cold eye on life and death, but is reminded that love transcends all. Not mine, grateful I get to play with them, and as always, am grateful to the Best Damn Beta in the Land, DixieGirl. Thanks for reading.


Horseman, Pass By

She could still hear the gunfire, smell the sulfur of the myriad explosions going off around her…

Tanks rolled over bodies – some already dead, some still alive – as Etta tried to figure out where to aim next. "Etta, get outta here!" her father screamed. She could see her mother and Astrid in the distance behind him, ushering the last of the survivors from the opera house. In her head, Etta knew they were winning, but the carnage and chaos surrounding her made her briefly think otherwise. What kind of victory could ever be won, what kind of peace forged, from _this_?

"Etta, I said get –"

Etta blinked about the same time as the first bullet hit her father. Even in the cacophony, she swore she could hear the air whoosh from his lungs as he was hit. Strangely – or not so strangely, considering how stubborn Peter Bishop was – he didn't fall, staggering back with a look of indignation on his face.

Simon appeared next to her just as she screamed, "Dad!" As her partner grabbed her arm, she tugged it away angrily and started toward Peter, who was clutching his stomach with his right hand as he continued firing with his left.

She had taken two steps when the second bullet hit Peter, spinning him halfway around. He remained standing just long enough to look at his daughter, love and fear in his eyes, and gasp, "Go." He fell to the ground as Simon lifted her off it with an arm around her waist, and dragged her away.

When they got back to what they laughingly called HQ, people were cheering and high-fiving each other. They'd turned the corner in the battle with the Observers, and victory was in sight. Etta, however, turned around and slapped Simon in the face. "How dare you!" she shrieked. "That's my _father_ out there! He's hurt! We leave no one behind, Simon! No one!"

"He wanted you out of there, Etta," Simon said. "He wanted you safe. There was nothing you could do for him."

"He's my _father_, goddammit!" Etta shouted, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face. "He's my father…" Simon started to put an arm around her, but she drew away. "I can't. Simon, he's out there somewhere… we have to… "

A sudden commotion in the hall cut her short; the first of two gurneys raced by, its occupant covered with a sheet. "Oh, God," Etta said, trying to shove her way past the gurney's attendants. "Daddy," she whispered as she squeezed past the smaller of the men. "No, Daddy, no."

"Etta?" she heard behind her. Turning, she saw Olivia, her clothes and face smeared with soot and blood. "Oh, baby girl," Olivia sighed as Etta ran toward her, flinging herself into her mother's arms. "My baby girl," she repeated, rocking her gently.

"Mama?" Etta said in a small voice.

"It's Broyles," Olivia said sadly, gesturing toward the covered figure on the first gurney. Before she could continue, the second gurney and its attendants approached. "Room 2," Olivia said crisply to the medics before bending down to the figure on the gurney. Tenderly stroking Peter's matted hair, she whispered, "You're gonna be fine now," before placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

"Liv… " Peter murmured, his eyes opening slightly. "Etta… "

"Daddy," Etta said, exhaling for what felt like the first time in hours. "I'm okay, Dad. I'm okay, and I'm right here." She started to take his right hand, but saw it was badly burned. Reaching for his left, she held it briefly before he was wheeled away, his daughter's name still on his lips. "Do you think he knew I was here?" she asked no one in particular.

"He knew," Simon reassured her, rubbing her back gently.

"He always knows," Olivia agreed. She kissed Etta on the cheek. "It's bad, baby," she added. "You need to know. It's really bad."

"I know," Etta said, clutching her mother's hand that rested on her shoulder. "Simon?"

Simon took her other hand in his. "I'll be right here with you, Etta. It's going to be okay, I promise…"

Etta blinked the tears away at the memory of that day as she smoothed a wrinkle from her seldom-worn black dress, and eyed herself in the mirror. Pale and drawn from these last weeks, she contemplated putting some makeup on for fear of being mistaken for the person being buried, but also because today was for _him_, and she wanted to look her best.

She walked over to the dresser, and picked up her backpack. She rummaged through it for a moment in search of the foundation she wore almost as rarely as her dress, but stopped and said, "You're supposed to be using the wheelchair, ya know."

"Don't tell your mom," Peter said as Etta turned to face him. He leaned against the doorframe, his good hand grasping his cane firmly. "Our secret, okay, kiddo?"

She looked at him, dressed in a dark suit, freshly shaved, tie perfectly knotted, and sighed. "Dad, you are _not_ going today. You're not well enough, and it's supposed to rain."

"I'm going, and no argument. I owe him," Peter said sternly, limping slowly toward his daughter, who met him halfway and put her arms around him gingerly. Resting his chin on top of Etta's head, Peter said, "I know I've said it before, sweetheart, but I'm so, so sorry."

"Stupid," Etta mumbled into her father's chest. "What a stupid way to die." She drew away from Peter slightly. "I mean, we got through all that other shit – he got out of amber, for Chrissakes! – and he gets taken out by some stupid fucking Loyalist kid who can't admit the war is over? _Really_?"

"It wasn't stupid, honey. Simon still died serving humanity."

"Simon died breaking up a fight between some mouth-breathing, tattooed punk and an old lady. He died in the street. Alone… " _And I wasn't there to help him_, her broken heart added silently. "I mean, where'd that kid even get the gun?"

"I'm still looking into that. Near as I can tell, he dug it up. There were a lot of graverobbers in Philly; it's why Simon went there, remember?"

Etta nodded. "Yeah… wait a second, near as _you_ can tell? You haven't been working have you?"

Peter shrugged, wincing a bit. "Just because I'm laid up, doesn't mean I can't work a laptop." At her scolding glare, he said, "Dial the laser beams down, princess. I _had_ to help. I couldn't just lie around playing invalid when my little girl just lost her partner."

"But the doctors said no work, nothing, for at least a few more weeks. You have to listen to them, Dad. You _have_ to," Etta pleaded. They had come so close to losing him – _had_ lost him, technically.

_She had been resting her head on his chest, singing softly to him, when she had felt his heart stop. She had to literally be torn from his side to allow the doctors to work on him; they weren't able to bring him back for a full eight minutes, and everyone feared brain damage. _

_Etta refused to believe her father had fought his way back to life, only to spend the rest of that life as a vegetable, so she, Olivia, Walter, and Astrid had taken turns sitting vigil with him as he lay in a coma for four weeks. Simon spent as much time as he could as well, in between out-of-town checks on newly-forming local governments. Etta had been sitting silently at Peter's side, unnecessarily smoothing the bandage on his hand and staring into space when she had heard a barely-audible voice murmur, "Such a face." That face had burst into a smile brighter than sunshine when she looked over and saw Peter's bleary blue eyes focused on her, a hint of humor twinkling in their depths._

There was no humor in those same blue eyes – so like her own – that looked at her now. "Dad, please. You've had four surgeries, been in a coma… you died, for crying out loud. You still have weeks of respiratory therapy, not to mention your spinal therapy… "

"Hey," Peter interrupted, his hand caressing her cheek. "I'm all too painfully aware of my physical limitations, thank you, Henrietta. But I am going to the funeral today. Period. End of discussion. My next PT isn't until tomorrow."

"I just don't know what I'd do if… " Etta shook her head angrily, a tear leaking from one eye.

Peter wiped it away with his thumb. "You won't have to find out for a good long time, if I have any say. We've all died way too many times in this family. Time to start living."

"He promised me, you know. He promised me everything would be okay. Promised me he'd be with me. Lying limey bastard."

"He was Scottish," Peter corrected her gently, knowing her anger was a just a cover for her pain. "East Kilbride, about 30 minutes outside Glasgow."

Etta sniffed, a small smile crossing her lips. "How do you know so much about him?"

"I did a background check on him," Peter said simply. At his daughter's shocked look, he said, "What? Like a father's not gonna check up on the guy who's seeing his daughter?"

"He wasn't 'seeing' me, Dad. He was my partner," Etta corrected.

"That's the way it starts," Peter said dryly. "He loved you, you know. And that's why I have to go to the funeral today. I owe him that much."

Etta nodded. "Dad, promise me something?"

"If I can," he replied.

Frowning, Etta snapped, "You're supposed to say, 'Anything, princess.'"

"That's not how I work," Peter said, taking Etta's hand in his. "I'm not going to promise that I'm never going to die, or that the pain you're feeling is going to go away any time soon. It doesn't. Believe me." He thought of the pain he felt at losing Olivia in the alternate future; it hadn't even happened, but he still felt the agony of loss as keenly as the day it had happened to him. "But it fades a bit. Every day, it gets a little easier to get up in the morning, and one day you'll smile, and realize you really mean it. Okay?"

Etta gave him a watery chuckle. "I was going to ask you to promise to use the wheelchair today." Peter laughed with her. "But thanks for all the rest of that." They stood in companionable silence for a moment, until Etta exclaimed, "Oh, shit!"

"What?" Peter asked.

"I was supposed to tell the funeral director what Simon wanted on his headstone! Goddammit, I have a head like a sieve!"

"Calm down, honey," Peter reassured her. "The stone's not going to be placed for a few months after the burial anyway. It's okay."

"No, but Simon told me what he wanted. We told each other, in case we… well, ya know."

"Okay, I can understand that. You can tell the funeral home later. I'll remind you. So, what does he want?"

She shook her head. "Some quote from an Irish poet. Yeats. Said it was on his headstone too."

"_Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman, pass by_," Peter said softly.

"Yeah, that's it. How'd you know?"

"I saw Simon reading a beaten up copy of Yeats's poetry one day. He carried it with him in his pocket all the time."

"He did?"

"Yup. Let's just say it was well-thumbed. It must have meant something to him. His folks were academics, so I figured it belonged to one of them. He was just sitting there, poring over the thing, so we got to talking… "

_Peter remembered the Yeats conversation with Simon vividly. They had been sitting in a cramped bunker, with only their flashlights for illumination, and yet Simon sat there reading a book. "Yeats, huh?" Peter had asked._

"_Yeah. Nothing like a little lyrical Irish fatalism to perk up the spirits," Simon joked. "Listen, Peter, I was thinking… if something happens… "_

"_Oh, it's gonna be that kind of conversation, huh?" Peter commented, seating himself on the gravel floor. "Okay. Don't worry, Simon. I'll tell her."_

"_What? I… how did you know what I was talking about?"_

"_You and I, my friend, are not all that different," Peter said. "I loved Olivia pretty much from the minute I saw her, but denied it for years. Too, too many years."_

_Simon nodded. "I know, it's going to seem terribly corny, but if something should happen to me," he said, reaching into the book and ripping out a page, "Give her this, will you?"_

_Peter squinted in the dim light at the words on the torn page, then looked at Simon. "I will. Of course, I will," he said softly._

"He was quite the Yeats scholar, your Simon."

"He wasn't _my_ Simon," Etta groused.

"He _was_," Olivia said from the doorway. "And you know it." She walked over to her daughter and husband. "You are in _so_ much trouble, mister," she said tenderly to Peter, running her hand down his arm.

"Yeah, yeah," he said dismissively. "I was just about to promise your daughter that I'd use the wheelchair today, okay?" Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Yes, she's your daughter when she's being all bossy."

Etta smiled at the gentle banter between her parents, but the smile faded when she recognized it as a similar kind she had shared with Simon. "I'm not bossy."

"Of course not, sweetheart," Olivia replied. "I want a promise of my own, Peter."

"What's that?"

"That you'll let me, or Etta, or somebody, wheel you. You are a menace to society when you use the motorized chair. I don't want you taking out half the congregation at the funeral."

"Fine," Peter conceded.

"Mom, you're okay with Dad going? He's not up to it at all!" Etta protested.

"Probably not, but it's important to him. And to Simon."

"To Simon?" Etta asked, confused. Before she could speak again, she heard a car horn.

"That's Walter with the limo. Astrid should be here by now, too. Come on, old man, let's get you downstairs, huh?" Olivia said, linking arms with her none-too-steady husband.

"Yeah," Peter said. He stopped for a moment to smooth Etta's hair. "Let's send him on his way, huh?"

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The rain, mercifully, had not come as predicted, and the small group gathered around the gravesite as the minister finished his blessing. "Now, I think we have one last thing before we go. Mr. Bishop? I believe Simon had asked you to read something?"

Peter nodded as Walter helped him rise a bit stiffly from the wheelchair. Keeping a firm grip on his son's arm, Walter said, "All right, son?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'm good, thanks." He cleared his throat, and pulled a crumpled, slightly yellow piece of paper from his pocket. "Henrietta, Simon asked me to give this to you." He took a deep breath, and began:

"WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true;

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead,

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars."

"Well done, Simon," Walter whispered, squeezing Peter's shoulder as the younger Bishop looked lovingly at Olivia. Leaning a bit, so his head touched Peter's, he repeated, "Well done."


End file.
